In Cold Blood
by bs13
Summary: "I'm not yours," she denies stiffly, her blue eyes quiet and submissive. "Then to who do you belong?" he questions. "No one," she answers, her voice breaking just once. "Not even to yourself?" (Dark, more realistic version of Tasertricks in a small drabble).


**There's literally no plot for this. It's just dark, dark material with killing and feelings and it's just everywhere. But I literally wrote this all in Spanish class (with a few knives drawn in the margin), so yeah, I think I have a problem. But it's also MY BIRTHDAY! So please don't judge me. Everyone does crazy things on their birthdays. I've had enough of sugary cute Loki turns himself in after his events in the Avengers (I should know, I'm writing one like that), and like, he gets redeemed. I don't read many redemption fics for that reason. I like to stick to AUs, but then, I was like...what if he _had_ taken over New York? This is it.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Thor.**

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><p>The blood is warm on her fingers.<p>

She inhales sharply, the metallic scent overpowering her sense momentarily as she wipes her fingers off on the carpet. Feeling the thick wetness of the blood and inhaling its essence are not the worst, however; what is worse is to see it.

She dares to glance at it now. The red, unmistakable hue of it makes her wince, but what further inflicts pain on her account is the amount. There's so much of it, and it's everywhere. On the carpet, coating the victim's white shirt, over her _own_ white shirt...

She closes her eyes, a thick feeling heavy in the back of her throat, stifling a thick sob she knows will burn. A single tear slips out of the corner of her eye and drips onto the red carpet. She's upset. She's _angry_. She wishes it would not be like this. That _she_ would not be like this. She hates everything— all the blood, all its warmth, everything.

She wishes the blood were cold. Cold blood is better for her mind to process; when she touches it, it doesn't have the warmth of life, has no indication that the person it bled from once had a beating heart. She reaches out to touch it again, to test its temperature, when suddenly a chill fills the room.

She stiffens, feeling goosebumps rise on her arms. A movement behind her makes her flinch involuntarily, because she knows who it is. She doesn't turn around, but she inhales sharply again, sending the scent of the chilling blood once more to her senses, and she says his name: "Loki."

A hand slides down her back, fingers long and gentle, as if touching her only to spite her. "Darcy," mocks the smooth, accented voice she's come to recognize and perhaps even fear.

She turns around to face him now, to face him in all his godly glory. He's wearing his usual armor, complete with his horned helmet, along with the usual smirk on his lips that is always on his face when she first sees him.

"You made me do this," she accuses flatly, voice devoid of any horror or anger.

"Of course. I cannot have blood on my hands," he says simply, resting his offending hand low on her waistline. His other hand hooks in the corner of her jeans, tugging her close enough to be but a mere inches away from him, but not close enough so their bodies are touching.

"But I can." Her tone isn't questioning.

He chuckles, as if amused that she is even questioning his answer. "You underestimate my judgment, mortal," he tells her, voice low and haughty, that usual smirk dancing on his lips.

She stares into those cold green eyes and says, "Of course."

A frown immediately crosses his lips. "Oh?" he says, his voice holding a warning.

"You're a killer," she says, for though she doesn't want to, she can never close her mouth around him. "You take over the world, kill my friends, and then you want me to believe you can't have blood on your hands? No. That doesn't make sense."

He chuckles suddenly, hands going flat against her waist. "Always so perceptive, my mortal," he says, his fingers digging deep into her flesh, hard enough to bruise as his eyes flicker to her face.

"I'm not yours," she denies stiffly, her blue eyes quiet and submissive.

"Then to who do you belong?" he questions.

"No one," she answers, her voice breaking just once.

"Not even to yourself?" His voice, while questioning, is amused.

She gives a dry, sardonic laugh. "Obviously not," she says, and while not daring to move out of his grip, turns and gestures to the dead man on the floor. "I'm a puppet. I have nothing. I _am_ nothing."

"You're mine," he counters, as if he's granting her a wish, to be his.

"No."

He frowns dangerously. "Dare you defy me?" he hisses through clenched teeth.

She swallows. "Yes," she breathes softly, voice hitching on the word.

His fingers dig into her sides again, harsher than before. "I see," he says, voice just as dangerous as his cold green eyes are when they flicker to her lips. "We will rectify that. Kiss me."

She complies with his request, meeting his lips in a bruising kiss that makes her knees buckle and her heart race speed up. That happens whenever they kiss, and he makes her kiss him often. She doesn't understand it; he doesn't even hold her in his arms, just keeps her at an arm's distance, and is a killer who take control of her. It's dysfunctional. It's madness. It's perhaps the worst thing in the world, to have an attachment to such a man as a lover.

He pulls away before her, smirking down at her with his usual smug look on his face. "My mortal," he muses lowly. "So weak. So fragile. So _mine_." He emphasizes his last word with an even _harsher_ grip to her skin, if that were even possible.

"I am not yours only because I..."

He pushes her away, cutting the words out of her lips off abruptly. Her body becomes cold, colder than before, without his fingers on her waist and his lips not on hers. She feels empty now, and there a pang hits her heart to know it is all because of him.

"Go," he orders her. "Leave."

She takes a staggering step backward. "What?" she whispers.

"_Leave_," he repeats, hissing the word with malice. His eyes, still as cold as ever, flicker to the body on the floor, and then fall back on her, more dangerous than before. "You are no use to me as of now."

She doesn't want to be of use to him, doesn't want to be _his_, doesn't want to be herself, but she also doesn't want to leave, not when he's right here. She takes the same staggered backward step, this time towards him, and she raises a hand as if to touch the skin of his face.

He jerks away before she can touch him. "Need I repeat myself?" he asks, face flushed in red, unadulterated anger. He seems to hesitate for just one second before he adds, "Or do I have to remind you in a much more _permanent_ way?" With a flick of his fingers, a knife on the floor— the one she had used, the one now drying with cold blood— materializes into his hand, and he raises it towards her.

She flinches instinctively. "Loki," she says, voice so soft and quiet, she is not sure it's hers. "I..." She doesn't finish, unsure of what she's trying to say. Maybe she doesn't want to leave him here, to dispose of the body she's killed alone. Maybe she doesn't want him. Maybe...

"Go." His voice is tired now, lacking all anger it once held. "Turn. Run. Scurry like the frightened, pathetic mortal you are." While his words are cutting, his tone is not. Yet when he turns around, back muscles tense under his armor, he never turns back.

And she merely obeys him, because doesn't she always?


End file.
